


The Empty Fridge

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mycroft's empty fridge, Sick Mycroft, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9165886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: When Greg goes over to take care of a sick Mycroft, he discovers the horror lurking in his kitchen.





	

Mycroft Holmes lay shivering under a blanket on his sofa, halfway dozing as _Shaun the Sheep_ played on the television. Hopefully the aspirin would bring the fever down soon.

The sound of the door opening startled him fully awake. Anthea? No, that was the tread of one Gregory Lestrade, who, soon enough, was standing at the entrance of his living room and peering inside.

“Got a text that you were sick and I should come by and check on ya,” he said, stepping into the room and taking in the somewhat pitiful figure Mycroft was no doubt making.

Mycroft grumbled and closed his eyes, wondering who he’d have murder for sending Greg, of all people. He started again as he felt Greg’s hand on his forehead.

“Yeah, that’s not a good fever,” he said. He nodded at the bottle on the end table. “I see you took something for it, hopefully that’ll kick in soon.”

“Most fevers, by definition, are not good,” muttered Mycroft.

“Well, sort of, it’s your body fighting off the cold, after all.”

Mycroft opened his eyes again, though his usual glare was not at it’s full strength. “I am quite aware of basic biology, Inspector.”

Greg chuckled. “Have you eaten today? I’ll have to fix you up some soup.” He turned and headed for the kitchen.

Mycroft almost started falling asleep again, before he remembered. He sat up a moment before he heard Greg curse. Hesitating, he got to his feet, blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“I haven’t had time to go shopping,” he said from the entrance.

Greg looked up at him, door still open. “You don’t even have _ketchup_.” 

“I don’t like it,” said Mycroft defensively.

Greg looked into the fridge again, and then back at Mycroft. “Literally the only thing in here is a bottle of Baileys.”

“It keeps,” said Mycroft. “Are you quite done raising my electric bill by standing there with the door open?”

Greg reached out and opened the freezer, taking in it’s equally empty state. He closed both doors and shook his head. “You are going to bed and I am going to Tesco’s.”

“You really don’t have to…”

“Yeah, I do.” Greg walked to him and took his arm, escorting Mycroft to his bedroom like he was encouraging a drunk bar patron away from a fight.

Mycroft grumbled, but slipped between the covers and was soon fast asleep.

**

When Mycroft woke again he found that the achiness had subsided and his head was clearer. He could hear movement downstairs and knew that Greg had returned from his shopping trip. Well, best to face this now.

Carefully, Mycroft got out of bed and pulled on his robe and slippers. Greg was in his living room, watching a football match.

“Hey Sleeping Beauty,” smiled Greg.

Mycroft gave him a look and sat on the other end of the sofa.

Greg got up and returned a few minutes later with a bowl of warmed soup. “It’s tinned, not my mother’s, but it’ll work.”

“Thank you,” said Mycroft politely, taking it.

Smiling softly, Greg turned and examined the shelf next to the television. There were just a few DVDs. “Don’t watch a lot of telly either, do you?” He selected one of the Doctor Who cases at random and settled back on the other end from Mycroft.

“A gift from Mummy,” said Mycroft wondering just how long Greg planned on lingering. “I am certain you have other things to attend to, rather than me.”

“My day off,” he said, watching the screen.

“Still…,” said Mycroft.

He was interrupted by the sound of the kettle. Greg got up again and returned in a minute with two cups of tea in saucers. “I didn’t see any mugs,” he said.

“I don’t own any.” Mycroft set his bowl aside and took the tea.

“Empty as the fridge was, I’m surprised you have plates and silverware.”

“I often eat at the Diogenes,” said Mycroft. “And London has a bevy of takeaway places.”

“Yeah, I saw the front of your fridge.”

Despite himself, Mycroft winced. “You hardly have room to talk,” he said. “Working all hours, living as a bachelor.”

Greg turned to look at him. “I have ketchup in my fridge.”

“I told you, I don’t like ketchup.” Mycroft tugged the throw over himself, turning his attention to the television.

“Well, I promise that when I stocked your fridge, I didn’t get any.”

Mycroft looked at him again and gave a small smile. “Thank you.”

Greg met his gaze. “You’re welcome. And I hope you know I plan on breaking into your house at least twice a month to make sure the milk hasn’t gone off.”

Mycroft watched him. “Just keep the key, replacing the glass gets expensive.”

“I’d imagine so. Now, rest. I’ll be here the rest of the day.” Greg leaned over and patted his foot.

Mycroft nodded and snuggled against the arm of the sofa, oddly comforted by Greg’s presence as he sipped his tea. Something to evaluate when his head didn’t feel four sizes too big.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I was talking to TheArtStudentYouHate again. [And this needed doing after The Six Thatchers.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/post/155270901959/mycrofts-kitchen-appreciation-post-also-that)


End file.
